“I sort of like the stubble,” I say. “It makes you look friendlier.”

He glances up and meets my gaze, as though looking for sarcasm, before his eyes narrow on the glass. “I know that’s my glass. Is it also my wine?”

“Yes, and it’s delicious,” I say with a smile. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m not sure,” he says tentatively, as though he really doesn’t know.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Andrew rubs his palm over his stubbly cheek. “Monday?”

Monday. As in the day he kissed me.

As in the day on which Page Six pronounced us the city’s new “It Couple.”

I don’t go there. Not yet. For all I know, he got sick before hearing the “news.”

I’ve already snooped through all of his cabinets, so I know exactly where he keeps his bowls, and I pull one down before ladling some soup into it.

“A few bites,” I say, setting it and a spoon and napkin in front of him. “Even if your appetite’s off, you need something so you don’t get shaky.”

He stares down at the steaming bowl. “What is this?”

“A cheeseburger.”

He looks up, and I roll my eyes. “It’s soup, Andy. Chicken noodle. Homemade. Eat it.”

He slowly picks up his spoon and studies me. “I don’t know what’s more surprising—that you shopped or that you cooked.”

“Only half right,” I say, leaning forward on my elbows, regretting a little bit that this particular V-neck shows off my cleavage in quite the perky fashion, and that he’s too sick to notice.

Or not, I amend, noticing that his eyes are most definitely not on the soup.

“Half right?” he asks, the question coming a heartbeat later than it should. I won’t tease him, not when he’s feeling down. But the second his strength is back . . .

“I cooked, but I didn’t shop. Got the groceries delivered to my place so the doorbell wouldn’t wake you up, then brought what I needed down here.”

“Georgiana Watkins cooks,” he says, thoughtfully spooning in a mouthful of broth and noodles.

“You sound surprised.”

“I thought Park Avenue princesses had personal chefs.”

“We did. But my grandmother insisted on teaching me some basics.”

“Same grandmother who left you the money to buy a place here?”

I nod. “I’m named after her. Even though she was elderly, in some ways I feel like she did more mothering than my own mom.”

He glances up. “You’re not close to your mom?”

“No, we are,” I tell him, keeping my eyes on the glass as I gently swirl my wine. “But she embraced the whole career woman thing right at the time when I really needed someone to talk to.”

“And your grandmother was there.”

“She was.”

He studies my face for a second before turning his attention back to the soup, and I hide a smile as he devours the entire thing in big, methodical gulps.

Finally he sits back and wipes his mouth with the napkin.

“More?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. Thank you. It was good.”

“Yeah, well, I kept it easy,” I say, reaching for his empty bowl and turning toward the sink to rinse it. “Figured even you would have a hard time criticizing chicken noodle soup.”

I look over my shoulder when he doesn’t say anything. He’s frowning. “That’s what you think? That you’d come in here, take care of me, cook for me, and I’d criticize?”

I lift my shoulders as though to say Par for the course, then turn away and put the bowl in the dishwasher, which I’d emptied earlier.

When I turn back, he’s watching me with a troubled expression, but that could be because he’s just feeling crappy.

“So what now?” I ask gently. “Back to bed?”

“God, no. I feel like I’ve been sleeping for days. Hell, I have been sleeping for days.”

“True, but respectfully, you’re not looking yourself.”

“No, and I don’t feel it either,” he says irritably, running a palm along his scratchy cheek, looking thoroughly put out.

“We could watch a movie,” I suggest.

His attention snaps back to me in surprise.

I hold up my hands in laughing surrender. “Or I can leave.”

“No, that’s not—” Andrew flexes his fingers before reaching up and running both hands over his hair in a quick, frustrated gesture that’s so unexpectedly spontaneous I laugh. I think I like sick Andrew. His guard’s down, and it’s . . . endearing?

“I don’t want you to leave,” he says with a scowl.

My heart gives a happy leap. “Are you sure?” I can’t help but ask. “Because I’m sort of aware that I barged my way in here, and that maybe your mortal enemy isn’t exactly the person you want by your side when you’re at your worst.”

His lips twitch. “At my worst, huh?”

“Well, the shower was an improvement,” I say with a smile, gesturing with the base of my wineglass in his direction. “When I got here this morning, though—”

“And yet you stayed.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrug and take a sip of my wine. “We are dating, after all.”

Andrew goes perfectly still. “What?”

I wince. “Okay, so at what point did you become dead to the world? Did you miss the fact that—”

“The paparazzo sold his tawdry photo of us? Unfortunately, no. Got the message loud and clear.”

I reach across and pat his hand. “Poor thing. Is that what made you sick?”

He lets out a startled laugh. “No. Although, speaking of getting sick, I’m feeling like I should prep you for getting sick.”

I wave this away. “I washed my hands after handling your cootie-infested sheets and door handles.”

“I wasn’t referring to your exposure today.”

I frown. “But what—Oh. Ohhhh. The kiss.”

He nods once. “I wasn’t feeling myself that morning, but I chalked it up to not sleeping well. Had I known that within a few hours I’d come down with a fever—”

“You wouldn’t have kissed me?” I finish for him.